


what blooms in the garden

by wegotodecember (imaginedecember)



Series: the carry home waltz [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-07 21:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17373938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginedecember/pseuds/wegotodecember
Summary: Hosea thinks of relationships.Of fissures and medicine, of health potions and elixirs. Of bandages and copper leaking through. Of reds, as explosive as fire, as popping and seething as a bullet. Of reds, like the rising sun. Each to each all opposite and alike.Hosea thinks of relationships.Of Dutch.And, then, yes, of prophecy.***Do not have to read prequel. Spoilers for the whole game.***.





	what blooms in the garden

**Author's Note:**

> **YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ THE PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS TO THE SERIES. Also, spoilers for the whole game.**
> 
> **For those who have read previous installments, this takes place before Dutch and Hosea meet with Arthur and John.**  
>     
>  **There is also explicit sexual content with dom/sub undertones. It is later in the piece, once they get to a cabin, so you can easily stop reading from there, if you wish**. 
> 
> Little background:
> 
> Arthur doesn't have TB. Hosea didn't die, he got captured but survived. Dutch killed Micah on his own. Arthur has an extra ability called Mother eye which blends human nature and nature together. And Arthur and John will get together but, again, that's in the previous works. 
> 
> Also, there's now a prophecy involved! RDR2 already has time travel and witches, so why not prophecy? 
> 
> So, I tried to explain as much as possible in this rambling, emotional mess but...I couldn't not go through it piece by piece with these two. And once I thought of this prophecy, I really couldn't stop. 
> 
> Hopefully, you enjoy it! Thank you again to all you lovelies who take the time to read, like, bookmark, and comment!

Dutch let the Count ride them to the tree.

The wrangled, gnarled one with the hooks and the knife hilts in its bark, the one with the ancient prophecy. 

Dutch expected to see a grave there.

He didn’t expect Hosea. 

The man was pressing his hands against the tree, but his foot tensed left just a bit and Dutch knew that Hosea had heard them coming, probably from hundreds of miles away.

He turned to look at Dutch and no, there wasn’t a physical grave there, but in Hosea’s eyes, there was.

“It seemed like it all came true.” Hosea laughed. Its emptiness landed dead on the branches with no leaves to carry it, with winter in its grasp. “I thought those were some fancy stories you made up in your head, Dutch.”

Dutch didn’t feel anything like hate when Hosea said that. It wasn’t mocking, those words of his. They were truthful. Dutch was all words, all big dreams and ideas. 

They had ‘em like they were invincible teenagers.

They both knew that the life they had chosen was it. They were gonna do it, be it. They had set their dreams as high as stars.

Space.

As nightmares as wide and vast and unfathomable.

Hosea was his tether. Had been his tether.

Ancient prophecy or not, that’d always be true.

Dutch thought of this and looked at the engraving in the bark, withstanding time and seasons as easily as breathing. 

It was of a man whose robe overflowed and kissed his body like a river to shore. He was holding a blazing fire spilling into a shaking lantern that seemed, if the etching was painted, to illuminate the doomed ship looming behind the robed man, whose captain yearned for a land that would never come. The ship, spinning and spinning in circles beneath a full moon, a moon that always echoed a wolf’s howl whenever Dutch thought of it. 

And in the other hand, a flower in the midst of bloom, so irreverent its promise of rebirth. And the worst, the most hardest thing to witness, yes, the deer antlers hooked around the man’s neck.

Dutch had always stopped when he laid eyes on them. They were…cradled and held with care, more detail in a set of bone than all the rest, chips and dips all different colors watering and smoothing together. Hell, even the flower’s delicate petals, the cool gentle beauty of the moon, the raging fire, the nooks and crannies of a doomed ship weren’t as detailed.

And the etching looked different now. 

As Hosea kept his palms there and Dutch met his with his own. Skin to skin, they held the etching and they felt its glow, its power.

Hosea laughed again, this time a little less empty, a little more full. “Seems it’s quite fitting that when we met, I tried my long winded story on you and got myself robbed.” The laugh petered out, then, “And here you were, spilling your own long winded story on me! Except, well, yours was true.” The last bit was said with a bit of bite that gnawed at Dutch’s heart. He almost felt the doomed ship makes its turn around from a shore hallucinated to the wide open seas again.

“It was true. World’s full of liars, and criminals, and time travelers and witches and ghosts. Like hell, Hosea, I ain’t lying. Wasn’t lying. Not then, not now.” Then, soft, as their hands, skin to skin, warmed, and the etching beneath them glowed. “I thought you was dead.”

Hosea hummed. “I thought so too. But Charles helped.” Dutch watched as his eyes got stuck on the antlers. “And Charles got Arthur too.”

Dutch swallowed. “And John?”

“Arthur got John out with Abigail and Jack.”

“Good, good. And the others?”

“Gone, away to lead their own lives.” Safe. Happy. Away from the gang that had spat on them, chewed on them, and spat them back out. 

Dutch went from watching Hosea to daring to move his hand away from his, to raise it in the air between them, and ask silently to touch him. Hosea nodded. Not a glance towards him. Just a nod. Dutch took that as it was before Hosea got his wits about him and changed his mind.

God, between a breath and a choke, Dutch touched Hosea’s shoulders and pulled, gently. And Hosea went. Into his arms. His head tucked underneath his chin, his body leaning against his, his hands rising up to smooth along his back. This.

Dutch whispered into Hosea’s hair, which smelled freshly like a dip in the river and of smoke, “Even with all this prophecy,” Dutch admitted, in a strong and clear, unfathomable no waver, “You’re the one, Hosea.” That didn’t make much sense but Dutch kept going. Words. Words, he was good at damn it. So, he cleared his throat, continued, “All of our successes were yours. I…I did nothing. I failed.”

The confession landed at Hosea’s feet and Hosea pulled away from him. He turned to look at the tree and he kicked at the snowy dirt that got the Earth all turned up white and ugly brown, covering and uncovering the words. He chewed on them. He ran them over and over in his head. 

In a back and forth, in some weird musical dance, he went back in for Dutch, pulling him in by his hand, and when the man was near, he cradled his jaw, scratched his thumbs along his beard, and watched as this man, Dutch van der Linde, became so little and small at the simplest touches from him, only him. The flower amidst bloom trapped in a glass cage aboard a doomed ship. He groused, “Well, I’m finally glad you can admit it.”

But Dutch...he, well, he didn’t like them words very much. He sunk further into Hosea’s space, resting his head underneath the man’s chin, echoing Hosea’s previous stance as if to scream at him that they were going to be equal so help him god. And he said with bunched up hands at this frustration, at this-. “No, damn it. We might’ve been called the van der Linde gang but it ain’t. It’s yours. It’s yours.” He repeated that ending like a mantra, cursing the words into Hosea’s skin and Hosea felt them red, and hot. “Fuck prophecy.” Because, sure, it was true and it was right and it had come to fruition and they knew because the etching was glowing, it was singing, it was colored not in Earth but in a swath of colors that pulsed, that would, unfortunately, go away after its moment of peace, of truth. But fuck all that because this, no matter what, would’ve been Dutch’s choice. This. Hosea. His sons and family. All of it. It would’ve been Dutch’s, no matter if whoever up there predicted it.

“Dutch-.”

Dutch whipped up, sudden as a crack, to grip Hosea’s shoulders and shake him, just a bit. “Hosea, please, you have to get it.” Then, quiet, so shatteringly quiet, “You have to know that I hurt you, that I killed everyone. It was me. And you…you were the good things.”

Hosea frowned and pulled Dutch’s hands away from him. Dutch relented and stepped back, giving space. That would’ve made Hosea smile but the frown on his face was as good as etched. “We both made mistakes, Dutch, and we simply dreamed too big for a world that didn’t want us no more. We should’ve left it all alone. And to think, the government and them had been after us too. It was too much.” He added, “Some things might be prophecy, might be fate but ‘m sure as shit some of it was our own wrongdoing.” 

Because the world was confusing and complex. Who knows what was meant to happen or not. All they knew was that the prophecy was true, that they had done at least that right. And Dutch did he what he did. And what happened had happened. It was horrific. It was tragedy. It should’ve been unraveled, stopped from the beginning. But it hadn’t.

Dutch held his hand out. Hosea nodded and Dutch placed a hand on the man’s chest, right where his heart was. Dutch looked at that space, at the creamy dark yellow fabric that covered skin and bone and muscle. Red. His red handkerchief seemed to ache. His red heart seemed to whimper. 

“I am so proud for how you helped shape our sons. Our sons-.” Dutch couldn’t help the pause to look at the prophecy. Its colors were washed away back to bark and Earth again. But something about it seemed less ominous and more so right. His eyes danced between the spilling lantern that had the same pull as the moon, and then the antlers. He tried again, “Our sons made it out, alive, and our sons tried to get as many out with them as possible because of the shadow in our little family, because of you, Hosea.”

Hosea couldn’t help it. He just…it burst out of him. “I knew from the start that Micah was bad news, that I should ‘a killed him as soon as he tried to get inside your damn head, Dutch.” And something in him got snarled and angry and it poured out, it went all over between them and inside their skin and bone and muscle. Red. “Tell me. Now.” 

Because Hosea didn’t know all of it. He had been captured, had been saved not from Dutch but from Charles, a good man, a better man than old Dutch van der Linde. 

And Dutch…quiet. He was smoothing over the fabric of Hosea’s vest in shaky, off centered circles that were starting to look more like ovals. Hosea watched the movement than stared hard at Dutch’s head, at that mop of black hair, begging for the man to raise his head so he could glare into the man’s eyes to somehow shove said glare into the man’s head. Knock some damn sense into him.

But Dutch was just…quiet. Then, as the circles resided and Dutch’s hands slid instead to pitter patter with the buttons of Hosea’s vest, he said, “I knew from the start too.” Turned emotions into a bulleted list. “I killed Cornwall. I pitted two families against each other. I took us to fucking Guarma and stuck my nose in their shit. I left John to die and I didn’t get John back when he got arrested. I pitted the Indians against the Army. I left Arthur to die with the Army. I didn’t get Abigail when Milton got her. I didn’t help Arthur on that damn mountain when Micah was there and there was Pinkertons all around us. I didn’t…” 

Dutch, again, looked at the prophecy. This time, the doomed ship whose captain spoke to him in dreams and nightmares alike, who had guided him, called out to him again. 

Deer bounding in Arthur’s mind whose eyes and movements danced and spun their own tales. Flowers daring to split apart or bloom, wilting stories in Hosea’s mind. Unfathomable fire and echoes of howls underneath full, bright moons inside that damn shaky mind of Johns. The first story they had ever let their sons read on their own. 

A song, if you will, but put into novel form about a man with four parts to his soul, each alike and opposite, who had these parts ripped from him and set into different humans. To have them reconnect, to reach their full potential, to fully understand their faults, truths, and rights, was the final end. Yes, and Dutch’s faults, his final damnation was- “I am a failure. I wouldn’t change for no one or nothing. I wouldn’t listen. I just…wouldn’t.”

Heard Arthur’s echo, them’s wrongs that you can’t right.

Heard Micah’s voice. The bigger picture.

God, what was the difference between love and loyalty?

Loyalty meant blind faith and devotion in a cause. Love meant to insist, it meant bigger pictures and protection, it meant thinking and learning, it meant questioning and, yes, even betrayal. 

And it hurt, it so badly felt like obliteration and disintegration to know that Dutch had used his family’s love, not their damn loyalty, and for what? Prophecy? And to keep all of Micah’s rat eyes on him and not on them? To get Micah thinking that he had won, that he had marked off all of Dutch’s precious things, had thought that Dutch’s family wouldn’t’ve survived it all, had marked them all as big and dumb, only to be shown Dutch’s final hand, his final trick. 

Knew Arthur would insist, would betray him, as it were, so everyone else could get out, to push Arthur and John into finally becoming the men he knew they’d be. Prophecy or not, the men they’d become, well, Dutch would always be proud of that and it would never ever be because his hands were in it. No, it’d be because those were his sons, hopefully his that is, and they were each their own person now. Had been molded and shaped by Hosea and Dutch but given the ultimate choice, the ultimate push and look at where they were, where he hoped they still were.

Together. Sewn together piece by piece. Dutch tried to get it started again with a soft, “Hosea, darling.” Because Hosea was quiet in the wake of all these confessions. And Hosea was still, so still.

He was standing a foot away from Dutch, near enough that Dutch didn’t think he’d bolt but still, there were ticks of worry as sure as hands on a clock. He told himself that this was normal Hosea, standing around and taking everything in, thinking and touching on every tiny detail before telling Dutch what he thought. But just…something in Hosea’s stance maybe. He was turned just enough away from Dutch and his eyes hadn’t met his quite right yet. And Hosea had his arms crossed and he was staring at that damn prophecy still.

The winter wind whipped up the man’s hair but Hosea didn’t seem to stir or bow to its might. 

How…sure, Hosea was their shadow, what kept Dutch going, but what held the whole damn thing together was truly Arthur. 

Arthur…with them abilities of his. Letting Micah know that Arthur was that, had that, and was it, would’ve been catastrophic. Dutch knew this, knew how twisted Micah could make Arthur’s abilities, if he had found out, so he kept all of Micah’s eyes on him and gold, not knowing that the actual gold was in Arthur all along. 

And god, leaving him on that mountain as his Arthur’s – no – as his son’s body wracked and hacked with the coming forth of Arthur’s final form, his final ability. Arthur was what held it all together, human nature and nature, the combining of Dead eye, which, yes, Dutch would admit that was all him and John tangled up in those reds and oranges, in lantern light and doomed ships who’ve lost their target, and Eagle eye, who would always be Hosea, at least in Dutch’s eyes. 

And, ha, Dutch remembered how Arthur went about telling him about them abilities of his. It was practical. It was drawn out like a plan or a map. This is what I have and I’ll handle it. Same with Eliza and Isaac. This is who they are and I’ll handle it. Between them, personal conversations were slight, were instead emotions turned into a bulleted list. With Hosea, Dutch was sure that Arthur would’ve confided in him. And that was okay. Hopefully, in the future, Arthur would confide in him too, even though, with what Dutch had done, that was about as good as shot. But hope was still there. Standing there. His tether.

He moved in close. Hosea didn’t bend away. So, he moved in more until they were chest to chest. Dutch teethed at Hosea’s neck, little bites that echoed the gnawing of his heart, and smoothed his hands over buttons and knots of thread. And they…god, they hadn’t done this since Horseshoe Overlook where things were tinged in good, heady warmth turned overflowing. 

In between a bite, a lick, and Hosea’s shuttering gasp, Dutch threw open the windows to the heart, to the soul, and slipped a piece of paper into Hosea’s gloved hands. His tether. 

And this piece of paper. 

Paper was reality. 

It was not dreams as wide and big as stars and space. It was not faith and blind loyalty in idealistic propositions and foolish propaganda about lavish and savage utopias with personal freedom abound. 

No, this piece of paper, it was a fool grasping for a final piece of the old. It was mister monster modernity devouring him after creeping in. This was…well, Dutch wouldn’t call it a plan. He’d call it real and true reality, a necessity, a-.

Was it wrong?

Just another piece of who he was, still unchanged?

He cleared his throat. No, he made sure the farm was nice and near to modern, bustling towns, that he wasn’t gonna hide from that sinking need to change, to invest in uncovering faults and forgiving wrongs, in love not loyalty, in seeing not blindness, in truth and reality not ideals and big dreams. Those things were gone.

Dutch would just have to change alongside it. The captain in his mind seemed to growl. He seemed to find land. So, this. “Got us a farm northwest of here. Damn captain in my head wouldn’t shut up until I was there so I think it’s good as safe, if there is such a thing.”

Hosea unfolded it and read it. Dutch watched him absorb it. “’M trying, darling.” Trying was all Dutch could do. He could admit and he could try. That was it. And he was sure that wherever he had left John, god the boy a little too much like himself, he’d be trying too with Abigail and his son. And, god, wherever Arthur had wandered, well, he knew that the boy would do some good.

Hosea folded up the piece of paper and nodded. “I know.” Dutch had done all he could without his guidance. A lot of it was lopsided and there had been bloodshed and casualties. It wasn’t something you could easily forgive or forget. But the flower in his nightmares shown a far different, more tragic story, one where Micah had found out who Arthur was, who the four of them were, whether the rat believed in prophecies or not didn’t matter because it was the abilities and the gold that you could mold and that was what was valuable. 

And, god, how, Hosea refused to think about that. This, albeit horrific, was the best outcome. He’d mourn for those they lost. He’d mourn for their family. And he, especially Dutch, would live for forgiveness and redemption without revenge, without more bloodshed. And, yes, for change and love. God, yes, love. He smoothed his hands over Dutch’s hair and Dutch nearly collapsed into him. He resumed his little bites, each tug on a strand making him lick or bite just a little harder. “But I do not believe that we should all be on this farm together.” 

Dutch hummed. “I rather us die together.” Still, he conceded, “Though I am loathed to admit that you are right, I am sure John and Arthur have their own responsibilities and their prophecies will lead elsewhere than with us.” It was a sad, hollow truth. The weight of it bowed Dutch and he nuzzled Hosea’s neck, poking his arms just a little and, thankfully, Hosea got the hint, the age old ways of how Dutch asked coming back sure and strong as if they hadn’t been eradicated by Dutch’s hands. 

Hosea wrapped his arms around him until they were chest to chest, breathing seemingly the same. He pressed his fingers, fingers of rumbling Earth and river and spring, into Dutch’s neck and kneaded. Dutch couldn’t help it. He keened, low and shattering. He kept his head tucked underneath Hosea’s chin, lips still pressed to the man’s neck. The noise he let out rumbled between skin cells, but Hosea had felt it land somewhere off center and rough in his heart. 

Then, of course, curious hands wandered down from Hosea’s chest to his belly to his belt buckle and didn’t pause once on its sure journey, kept going until those hands grabbed his cock. Hosea chuckled, just as low as Dutch’s keen but not as shattering, more strong and sure because god, this was Dutch, this was always Dutch. And this was a Dutch that Hosea had sorrowfully mourned.

See, Dutch van der Linde was this charismatic leader all gun ho at the ready but no one really knew that that was all show and games. No, he fell apart for only one man and one many only. 

“What’re you doing with those hands, Mr. van der Linde?” Hosea asked. His kneaded his hands a little rougher into the skin of Dutch’s neck and couldn’t help a bloom of pride in his chest when Dutch’s greedy hands got tumbled off course and slid elsewhere, and a sharp gasp tumbled out of that pretty mouth of his. 

“Nothing at all, Mr. Matthews.” 

And, god. Hosea couldn’t help it. He sucked in a sharp breath and there was a laugh pressed shortly into his skin and Hosea just…he couldn’t.

He yanked at Dutch’s hair, pulled his head up to meet his eyes, finally, to see those dark colors swirl and try to mask but with another tug, open for him and burst with emotions. Hosea saw it all, laid before him. It seemed as though every conversation, every moment, every thought, every struggling pulse of heart, was spoken to him so clearly. All of it.

Hosea trembled. He whispered, “Dutch, dear.” And Dutch swung up and kissed him. Met his lips like a memory, slotting right into place. Warmth, heady and strong. Fire. Dutch was always fire. Hosea smoothed his hands through Dutch’s hair and let Dutch lick and bite at his lips, let Dutch command him to open up for him. And Hosea did. He let Dutch’s tongue lick into his mouth, let his tongue mix with his own, let the taste of smoke and a hint of whisky drown him. Chased that taste, that warmth, sure and strong.

Broke the kiss, the spit, the warmth, to say, shaky but smooth, with a tilted, crooked smile, “Got a cabin a ways down. Care to join me, Mr. van der Linde?”

Dutch laughed, full bodied, and just kissed Hosea, once, twice, dry and cracked, but soft, “Why, Mr. Matthews, I am starting to think you planned this.”

Hosea raised an eyebrow at that. “Me? No.”

Dutch shook his head and pulled Hosea in by strong arms wrapped around his waist, one hand sliding down to grip the man’s hips. Their hardnesses met and their eyes whipped up to watch the other react with gleaming eyes and opened mouths. “I think you are taking a page from my book. Where’re are those smooth words, hm?”

Hosea, bested, bristled a bit at that, but he knew how to get Dutch malleable for him. He leaned, sure as a damn crook, to suck at Dutch’s ear. With each roll of his tongue, he said, “My pretty boy, will you join me in a cabin?”

That word. Dutch couldn’t help it. He bowed his head, and moaned. It was shivery, it was guttural, that sound, those words. They hadn’t been spoken in so long. Suddenly, Dutch knew he needed it, needed his tether back, his Hosea. To give in to this failure of his. To let Hosea take over. He nodded, nodded so many times he felt like his neck was gonna snap. “Yes, yes.”

Hosea slapped his ass and laughed. “Well, then, get on that horse of yours and lets go.”

Dutch had scrambled for the Count like he was being shot at with twenty thousand guns. Hosea clambered for his own and they rode, side by side, and this. This.

Dutch wanted to slow down time even though everything in him was a light and waiting, no, yearning for Hosea, for the future, for peace, for everything to come together. 

But, this, ridding together, something about it.

He looked over at Hosea, at this man, his who was somehow beside him again after all the bloodshed stained on Dutch’s heart. 

He smiled, the feeling old and cracked. 

And Hosea, looked at him as if he was the stars. And, yeah, Dutch had been a fool. He didn’t need big dreams when he had Hosea, when he had this. Hope. And understanding. God, was this what it felt like? To have love back, slotting rightly where it should’ve been, in loyalty’s butchered spot, idealized faith and plans obliterated for this, something real and right and true. 

When Hosea’s horse slowed, Dutch met his pace and when their horses were tied up, Dutch grabbed for him and Hosea giggled, a youthful sound despite his age and his creaking bones. Hell, none of that mattered. What mattered was this, these moments, this-.

“I love you, Hosea.”

He looked into Hosea’s eyes, saw spring there, rebirth, and held on to Hosea’s jaw, kissed him, right where he always should be and smiled when Hosea nuzzled into his neck and responded, in truth, in kind, “I love you, Dutch. Always.” Then, tinged in rough grinds, he added, “Now, it is a little late for this but…” Smoothed his hands from Dutch’s chest to his belly, low to the buckle, and to Dutch’s cock, which was still hard and aching. Dutch titled his hips into Hosea’s hands, into his everything. 

And, yeah, Hosea was right. Oddly enough, they had never fucked. It was always curious and fumbling touches like teenagers doused in darkness, in dreams as vast and wide as space. But when old age leaks in, when dreams as big as stars come down to Earth and when idealized utopias get doused in reality, there’s a different kind of love that gets slotted into place. 

This was no longer curious and fumbling. This was strong and sure. This is who I love, who I always will, through old age and death, through poor decisions that led to bloodshed, through understanding. This is who I chose. This is, well, hell, it was prophecy too. The captain finding land, his spring, and spring, its blooming flowers, finding its passerby who would cradle it and ensure its forever growth.

This. Dutch ground out, “Will you fuck me, Hosea?” Tacked on a choked, “Please.”

Hosea stuttered a bit, his hands pausing and his eyes whipping up to look at Dutch, at Dutch’s sureness said in his stance, in his gaze. “I would be honored.” Hosea slid his hands to Dutch’s and interlaced them. And, then, he pulled. And, of course, Dutch went. 

Everything was mechanical, quick.

Take the bed rolls and their saddlebags from the horses. Ensure that they were okay in the midst of it. Take everything inside. Smooth the bed rolls together and lay them in front of the hollowed out fire place. Get wood for said fire. Light the fire. Lay down together, side by side.

Caught in a silence. 

Hovering.

And…oh. Oh.

Sudden.

Dutch was under Hosea. On his back. Hosea, on his knees, splayed wide so Dutch could lay in between and god, just god. 

“Hosea.” But the words got half smothered as Hosea swung down and kissed him. Laid to rest his lips on his, licked the seam of Dutch’s lips, and wasted no time delving in. Dutch withered beneath him, becoming so small as Hosea latched his knees around him and claimed. Their tongues twisted and tasted something like cigars and a hint of whisky, wet and tangling with heat. Heat. 

Hosea felt like he was molten, his hands incessant as he smoothed in confident strokes down Dutch’s vest, unbuttoning as he went, then down to his belly, soft and round, and to the hard outline of the man’s cock. Slid the buckle out, away. It clambered somewhere on the floor. 

Dutch patted at Hosea’s stomach and Hosea broke the kiss and sat up on his haunches. He scooted back enough to let Dutch move in hurried gestures. Took his pants off. Threw them, hopefully not in the fire but right now, Hosea could care less. He was locked on Dutch, stripping himself bare for Hosea. It was delicious to watch, to see Dutch laid out before him, stripped of black and red to reveal a pale palette. 

“You too. C’mon.” Dutch’s hands were now on Hosea’s clothing and Hosea let him rip and tear at buttons, didn’t even mind it much. But Dutch slowed, actions turning smooth, as he slipped off Hosea’s vest, then unbuttoned his stripped shirt underneath. “I like these colors.” Dutch met his eyes and there was something there that made Hosea kiss his smiling, stupid mouth, to feel the burn of his beard. A weird, little harsh reminder that this was real. “Yellow and green suits you.” Jesus. Hosea pushed him back a bit, slipped his shirt off, and batted Dutch’s wandering hands away so he could shakily lay on his back to get his pants off, the position a little easier on his knees than standing. And when that was done, Dutch was on him. 

But Dutch, silly Dutch, forgot the rules. Hosea chuckled before grabbing a handful of Dutch’s hair and gently tugging. Dutch’s head tilted up and the fiery Earth laid in his eyes flickered in the firelight. Warmth. Fire. As vast and endless as seas. All his. Hosea smiled, patting Dutch’s cheek before pushing at his chest. Dutch, his pretty boy, got the hint and laid back. 

They smoothed into their earlier position. Dutch on his back in between Hosea’s splayed knees. Except this was different because they were naked, they weren’t in a camp where they had to be quiet, and there was the stench of the after tragedy that would never leave them. 

It was…more…and it was smothering.

Hosea leaned down, kept his eyes on Dutch’s and just hovered there, took everything in. Dutch was so round and soft and pale and gorgeous. He touched from neck to chest, tangled fingers through the hair there, pressed a kiss into Dutch’s pink nipples, which got Dutch inhaling so rough and harsh, followed that breath with a hand on his ribs, and then to his belly and to his cock. 

Hosea had licked and sucked Dutch to completion many a time but it was always with them mostly clothed. There was something more vulnerable, more shattering to see Dutch laid out underneath him, malleable and naked. Clothing served as a barrier. Without that, everything was laid to be read and understood.

And Hosea did, he did.

He listened, read, and bent to suck and bring Dutch’s cock into his warm mouth. Dutch snapped his back up and Hosea’s hands reached for his hips to keep him still. “Jesus, Hosea.” Dutch’s noises were loud, unhindered and Hosea felt their pulse as he sucked and licked at Dutch’s cock, the length and width a little much for his throat but Hosea didn’t care. 

He patted Dutch’s hips, a silent command to stay, and let his cock slip from his mouth. He licked his lips to get any of Dutch’s liquid into his mouth, and then reached for his saddlebag. He dug around for the tin of grease and turned back to Dutch, still and silent, but with eyes begging. God, he was gorgeous.

Hosea had stripped away his layers of black and red, and was left with this, a gorgeous human being who somehow chose out of all the people in the world to love him. So, he moved back into position, knees splayed wide with Dutch caged in between them and dipped his fingers into the grease. He watched as Dutch’s eyes never left his fingers as they slipped from bunched thighs that quivered for bites and color, to the man’s ass and then his hole. Hosea’s fingers slipped in and Dutch’s body seemed to snap back and forth between wanting to bow and wanting to listen to Hosea’s earlier command to stay. 

Hosea watched Dutch’s body swing and sing more and more, tighter and tighter, as his fingers dug and stretched his pretty body out for him. Dutch’s fingers were bunching the fabric of the bed roll, his eyes were squeezed shut, and his back was tilting between bowing and staying. Thighs were dancing and his feet were kicking. 

Hosea smoothed those quivering thighs out, splayed them wide, moving his legs until they were hooked around Hosea’s own. His hands, greasy, but neither cared, gripped Dutch’s jaw, scratching through beard and skin, and tapped, just once. Dutch wrenched his eyes open and the Earth inside them was molten. Hosea kissed his jaw, his eyes still stuck on his pretty boy. Asked, in a hollow echo of tragedy, “Are you sure, Dutch?”

Lost in spring, Dutch knew. He nodded. He begged. “Please, Hosea.”

And it should’ve been odd, but here, intimate as they were, it left so much openness, so little shut down.

Here, close skin to skin, Hosea rocking his cock into his hip, a mimicry of what they both yearned for, and then pausing for hacking breaths full to bursting with harsh sobs, Dutch underneath him willing and malleable, holding him, skating trembling fingers along Hosea’s form and bringing him in down, down, drown, drown. 

Yes, this, in this dark to confess, "Shouldn’t’ve taken me back." Dutch was slipping his fingers away and to the blanket, laying almost stock still on his back. Hosea paused. "Hurt you so damn bad. Ruined this." Dutch’s voice usually a strong waver quivered and buckled, rough, taken apart piece by piece. He ran a sweating hand down his face, sticky, wet, salty. Ruined. He heaved in, out but nothing could stop the tumbling out. "Had a...god it was the worst nightmare. You...ha, you turned your back on us and got shot for us. That...I had lost you before that but loosing you physically it...it was it." The tears were back, stronger now. A coursing river. A build up lake of it on his cheeks, his chin, his beard. Slipping down, down to his neck. To Hosea still tucked there. Hosea who was inching out of him until the fullness was gone, that physical tether was gone pop and out, fizzle and sizzle, like a shot, like a -.

"Grease me up, dear."

Dutch whipped his head up to see Hosea above him waiting with eyes clear and fingers sure as they pressed so gently, so, so gently against his throat, pressing so softly the tears into skin, to thumb and feel pulse. And there was…a smile. Sure and strong.

Dutch was spinning, grasping and falling off a cliff edge.

His actions were robotic. Just listen to Hosea. You didn’t do if before so you better do it now. He complied. He grabbed the tin of grease and sat up enough. Hosea leaned back on his haunches and let Dutch reach for him. Greasy hands slipped and slid up Hosea’s thighs, soft, kneading touches, eyes just as soft, as focused on him.

Then, hands, on his leaking cock, thumbing through the dripping liquid and greasing him up. Then, again, “Please, Hosea.”

And, finally, finally, Hosea slid inside Dutch and rocked. 

Dutch’s spine finally, finally bowed.

Hosea’s hands flattened and smoothed along the man’s hips, his ribs, and held, gripped. Flesh yielded under his command and Dutch seemed to bow more at the grip, at the handling. Hosea watched his hands skid along fabric, gripping it and releasing it in fitful bursts. 

He pounded into him just a little harder, just a little off rhythm and faster and Dutch cried, the sound whispery thin and high pitched. And tears, god there were tears. Hosea slowed to a gentle rocking so he could catch some. Delightful gifts, as they were. He even kissed a few, smiled so soft and true when Dutch’s watery eyes glanced at him. 

The stars. 

Hosea didn’t need to give or tell Dutch dreams as big as stars, he just needed to be here, with Dutch, and they’d be there in the stars, in the wide space. Dreams and hopes big and vast and open like mango farms and planets spinning. Didn’t need to go searching for that next big hit when they had this, them, their family. This should’ve been the final plan. This should’ve been-.

Prophecy.

“Hosea.” Dutch’s voice was shot. It was raw. He tried to clear his throat but his muscles were spun and wound up so tight yet seemingly so eager to loosen under Hosea’s hold. He tried though, for this man, for this, and gripped Hosea’s jaw with one trembling hand. Hosea took the hint. He kissed him. It was not straight to tongue which was their usual as why should one waste time but it was so slow, just as slow as the rocking Hosea was doing with his hips. And it was full. It was bursting. Just as it felt to have Hosea in him. Claiming.

Small. Dutch quite liked it. He smiled, just a bit, and Hosea snickered, waiting for him to do something. Dutch settled back on the bed and met Hosea’s pace, fucking back down on his cock, and smothering Hosea’s harsh moan that was heart buried. 

This. Equal.

Suddenly, Hosea stopped and Dutch felt the man’s head, heart leave. Something in him lurched, and he scrambled to catch Hosea before he dared to leave but Hosea was there, molten against his hands as the man, still hovering above him, tucked his head into Dutch’s neck and cried. The lurching was back. His heart was kicking, it was screaming. Dutch grabbed handfuls of Hosea’s hair and tried to be soothing but he didn’t quite know how. Words. Maybe he could spin something?

“Hosea, darling-.”

But that just made Hosea cry harder. Jesus god almighty. It felt like Hosea was in mourning. Dutch tried again with little kisses marking as punctuation and Hosea’s cries chopping up every word. 

“Hosea, darling, I can’t take back what I did. Tell me what to do. Please.”

Hosea’s cries stuttered and he ground out into Dutch’s skin. “Now you ask for my advice.”

Dutch’s mouth twisted up. He smoothed his hands down to Hosea’s neck and laid them there, letting them warm Hosea up and maybe, just maybe, he could knead some love into his skin, into his bone, into his veins and blood to his heart. 

Then, quietly, “Just…love me, Dutch. That is all I ask.”

And Dutch could do that. He could. Change and melt the prophecies, the different parts of them opposite and alike together until they blended, they bled into one. “Of course, of course. I love you.” 

The love turned into a mantra, into a rhythm. Hosea went back to fucking him and Dutch begged for certain touches, even though he was sure Hosea could read him as fine as a crime novel, as well as a flower drinking the sun. He moved Hosea’s hands to his ribs, patted them silently to say that he loved it when Hosea gripped him there, how Hosea kept him so still, his back so bowed, as he fucked him, as he claimed him, as they molded together into one. 

Dutch’s hands got twitchy, grabbed at his own hair and slid hands along his sticky cheeks. Then, rocking back on to Hosea’s cock to get those moans out of him. Delicious. His spring. His tether. This.

Hosea grunted out a sharp, “Where?” It took Dutch a moment to get it. His head was spinning, it was dizzying but he could feel it, how Hosea’s rhythm was faltering, how the sounds punching out of Hosea were getting smaller, more like shivers. The noises were the same whether Dutch was sucking him to completion or letting Hosea fuck him into pure oblivion, stars and space. He smiled and patted his stomach. 

Hosea nodded before he slipped out and came with a quiver quake, a wilting petal, a sharp sound tumbling out of an open mouth. Dutch couldn’t help it. He wiggled underneath the warmth that Hosea had dripped and let out from his cock on to his belly. God. It was delicious seeing Hosea break and fall apart on to him but even better as-.

Yes. Hosea breathed red and hot on to Dutch’s cock and swallowed him down. Dutch let it out. Heart roared. Red and molten. He screamed as he came, a tacked on, “Hosea, fuck, Christ” and in between one roll of a warm, hot tongue and a well measured swallow, Dutch was gone. He came into Hosea’s mouth, the feeling too much and not enough. 

Hands pressed, gentle, soft, as muddy as Earth, into his throat and Dutch whimpered. He watched as Hosea looked at him, drank him in and he brought that damn smiling face down for an open mouth kiss. Tongue to tongue, Dutch tasted himself and it felt like a claim, like this was his. He panted out, “Damn it, I think I’m done for the night.” Hosea chuckled.

“I’d hope so. It will be a while before I can feel my knees.”

Dutch laughed. “Or my back.”

His body sure did hurt. They weren’t young and they were certainly a little late on this but damn, his body seemed to thrum with a sweet, saccharine energy that vibrated through him. They were sweaty but Dutch didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around Hosea and held him. Hosea tucked his head underneath his chin and Dutch felt the imprint of his smile against his racing heart. 

Yes, change and prophecy.

And soon, hopefully, when they found them, their sons would join them too or, at the very least, be willing enough to listen, to read, to understand.

Because, togetherness, apart and opposite alike, in fissures, in sewn pieces, in rebirth and fire, in love and Earth, that…

That was what bloomed in their garden.


End file.
